Deep Dark

At night, the corridors are dark and cold, a silver mausoleum. In the daytime-in truth, there is no daytime. It’s always night.

The corridors are lined with narrow drawers, and in many ways it is a mausoleum. Or a morgue. The two vampires have often discussed which is the more apt metaphor. The humans in the narrow drawers are alive, after all, if cold and still, held carefully on the very edge of death.

Ashton checks the rows of monitors every six hours according to the set schedule. Every twelve hours, he retreats to the back room, where a flood of artificial daylight can be triggered to bring on a few hours of coma-like sleep. He switches duties with Kristobel every few days according to the clock. They can each handle seventy-two hours of wakefulness before shakiness and sluggish mental capacity set in. They’ve trained for this, been tested under a variety of conditions to ensure the schedule is exactly right.

When they stand watch alone, it’s only for twelve hours at a time. Then they switch off, alternating watch and sleep.

They have entertainment, movies to watch and the occasional news feed that wends it way through subspace from Earth. There’s no way to know for certain how old it is when it comes.

They sit together in the forward viewing area, where the clock says it’s 0200 on February seventh. Ashton stares out the glass at the stars. Kristobel sits with his eyes closed. He does that often; Ashton isn’t sure why.

“How much longer?” Ashton ventures.

“Dunno.” Kristobel doesn’t open his eyes.

Ashton wonders how long it’s been since they’ve spoken to each other. Years, as far as he knows. It’s difficult to judge the passage of time. The ship does it for them, but the humans who arranged the details felt it would be better if the time were kept less than obvious. Supposedly it will keep the two of them from sliding off into insanity.

Humans, Ashton thinks, are profoundly stupid.

So is he, for that matter, for thinking this would be an easy job.

All you have to do is watch the monitors, be sure everything’s working right. It’s not hard. You’ll have a companion, so you won’t be alone. After the first few decades, though, even having company doesn’t help that much. They are bored beyond belief. Even the couple of centuries they lived before they stepped on board the ship hasn’t prepared them for this level of monotony.

Ashton stares out the window for a few minutes longer-or a few hours, he can’t tell-then gets up and walks back down the long halls. The monitors on the drawers show green-all is well.

All the way at the end of the corridor, there is another window that looks out into the endless stars. Beside this window, one of the drawers has a monitor with a needle that trembles. The light remains green, but something just doesn’t look right.

Ashton looks back down the corridor, half afraid of seeing Kristobel. But Kristobel rarely ventures this way. Ashton presses his thumb into the button that frees the lock on the drawer.

Inside is a man, lying on his back, eyes closed. There is no sign of life. Ashton can hear it, though, the nearly imperceptible movement of his blood, the slow, slow beating of his heart. He bends over the drawer.

There are already marks on the man’s throat. It’s not the first time Ashton has bent to drink from this fount.

The blood is cold but it tastes sweet. Sweeter than the artificial and animal substitutes provided in the galley. Of course, the passengers are meant to be off limits, but the people who had organized the expedition should have thought a bit harder before they hired vampires.

Vampires are a perfect choice, they’d said. They’re immortal, so they can survive the trip without cryogenics. They don’t need oxygen, so there’s no need to keep the life support systems on line. Economical, sensible, logical.

But vampires get hungry. And it’s a long, long trip to Alpha Centauri.


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